


Catch the Manic Rhapsody

by thattrainssailed



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, My usual brand of dumbass metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: He smiles at Alec and it mimics the glass of red wine that he holds, warm and refined and familiar. The curve of his lips arches into a laugh as he begins to tell a story and the shadowhunter can only stare at his mouth, at the light scarlet stain of his lips, grapes as unwilling to leave his kiss as Alec always is.





	Catch the Manic Rhapsody

It’s hardly a secret that Magnus has a… reputation. To the untrained eye, he’s a flashy individual, jewels and designer labels soaked in hedonism. Life’s indulgent pleasures are all he cares about; his clubs are a testament to decadence and debauchery. Yes, the warlock is an embodiment of desire, of sex and drugs and filthy dancing in the darkest corners of the smokiest dance floors. Magnus Bane, standing over it all, in his hand an ever-present glass of alcohol. Indeed, as much as he masters every sin, it seems as though liquor is his most personal vice. Devilish tastes for a half-demon.

Alec laughs at the rumours.

It is true that Magnus enjoys pleasure. He’s certainly become accustomed to luxury some time in the last three hundred years - his wardrobe full of unpronounceable names is a testament to that. And yes, Magnus is proud of his clubs. They are, after all, businesses, and extremely successful ones at that. Despite being held at an ever-extending arms’ length from the warlock, the venues continue to be among the most popular in all of the New York downworld. What the rumours do not disclose, what they could never hope to understand, is what lies beneath the smoke and mirrors of Magnus’ reputation. Their version of the warlock exists in a perpetual midnight, a constant in the shadows of New York’s back alleys. It doesn’t consider him in the morning, cast in golden sunrise as the star itself strains into the bedroom to taste his gorgeous skin. The rumours don’t extend to the way Magnus reaches for Alec as soon as he wakes up, strong arms pulling the shadowhunter close enough to kiss. Nor do they think of nights spent in the loft, greasy take-out containers lazily left on the coffee table as Magnus lays himself in Alec’s lap and they take predictions about the bad reality television playing before them. The banter will last hours, until they stop pretending that they have more attention for the screen than for one another’s bodies.

(On those nights, Alec can’t deny Magnus’ affinity for pleasure. Particularly Alec’s pleasure.)

There is, however, one aspect in which the rumours chance upon accuracy. Alcohol. Not to say that it’s an addiction or a problem. It’s simply a fondness. It seems natural, the pairing of Magnus with liquor, as though Magnus was born with a hint of ethanol mixed into his spirit. 

He smiles at Alec and it mimics the glass of red wine that he holds, warm and refined and familiar. The curve of his lips arches into a laugh as he begins to tell a story and the shadowhunter can only stare at his mouth, at the light scarlet stain of his lips, grapes as unwilling to leave his kiss as Alec always is.

Vodka, on the other hand, is a drink for wrath. Betrayals, underpaying clients, bigoted nephilim - they call for the sting of a spirit, a curl of Magnus’ lip as he tastes the drink and his anger. He never takes it out on Alec, but the tension in his body is palpable through the entire loft. Alec often drinks with him, and the words they lend to the situation are as sharp as the alcohol on their tongues.

Sadness, then, calls for whiskey rocks. Slowly slipped, balanced precariously on the arm of a chair, Magnus’ fingers going from being steepled against his forehead to curling around the cold glass. He always goes through exactly one and a half before seeking out Alec, whether through text or simply walking across the loft and into his arms. Sometimes they keep drinking together, keeping one another from falling from the precipice into spiralling emptiness. Sometimes Alec hides the bottle. They both know that Magnus could easily recover it with magic. He never does.

Cocktails are different again. They’re exclusive to flirting, sweet and sharp mixed together alongside something indescribable but addictive. Magnus twirls the stem of a glass as Alec takes his shot; the warlock maintains no subtlety in the way he watches his boyfriend’s ass bend over the pool table. A quick spank has Alec’s cue slipping against the felt, the white ball travelling a scant few inches. By the time the shadowhunter turns to glare, Magnus is already taking another mouthful of his sweet concoction. When Alec’s frown doesn’t let up he’s met with an offer of the glass. He swears he can taste Magnus in the liquor.

Because their connection makes perfect sense. The ubiquity of alcohol in Magnus’ life is a reflection, a manifestation of the man himself, of everything he has ever been to Alec. Sharp and shocking, familiar and comforting, leaving Alec gasping and burning. And always, endlessly intoxicating. He makes Alec drunk with happiness and love, stumbling over himself without shame in an effort to keep up with such a man. Everything softens when Magnus is around. When Alec tastes him, he feels liquor in his veins.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I haven't written in months. Uni is kicking my ass. Those are all the excuses I have for this garbage fic.
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "Moment's Silence".
> 
> More trash available on [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


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